Wandering Stars
by gypsy season
Summary: [Once Upon A Time in Mexico] Agent Sands is left blinded on the side of a road with hothing but memories. Flashbacks and real-time, and some plot and resolution are in order.
1. Prologue: Musings on Spanish and Dying

Author's Note: This looks to be a long and promising Sands-fic, filled with almost everything Sands you can think of. Just keep in mind that this is the prologue, chapter 1 doesn't actually _happen _until the third insertion here. Hope that clears up any future confusion.

Disclaimer: Sands does not belong to me. Neither does 'Wandering Stars.' That, my friends, belongs to the wonderful and talented Portishead. It would be rather nice to have Sands, though…but I guess that's not happening.

__

'Please could you stay a while to share my grief

It's such a lovely day to have to always feel this way

And the time that I will suffer less

Is when I never have to wake.

Wandering stars, for whom it is reserved

The blackness, the darkness forever.'

-Portishead, 'Wandering Stars'

Wandering Stars

Chapter 1 - Spanish and Dying

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Eyes of crimson

Crying tears of pain

Blood and betrayal

An un-fair game.

Wish upon a star

Don't even know it's there

You'll get your revenge

But you don't know where.

Empty in agony

Fire to touch

How can so much nothing

Hurt so much?

Can't sleep or dream

No eyes to close

Can only go out

From fatigue at the most.

Tired of nothing

Wants it all back

Won't calm down

Can't relax.

These visions of pain

Are all that you have

But at least no more nothing

That's all to ask.

Someone stands near him, keeping their distance. No one just casually walks up to the guy with empty eye sockets that are spouting blood like a fountain anymore. He's speaking Spanish, more god damn Spanish. The language burned Sands' ears now, leaving them as empty and painless as the place his eyes once made their home.

"Go th'fuck away..." Sands slurred, trying to sound threatening when really he just sounded drunk, having had enough. He sat, leaning heavily against a rough wall, freezing in the scorching Mexican sun. He didn't want to hear anymore of this godforsaken language. Better yet, he didn't want to hear anything at all. Since he could only depend on his ears (and a kid that made a living selling fucking bubblegum, the kid that had the nerve to tell Sands he only offered one dollar while his life was rapidly bleeding away down his face), which were working overtime to make up for his lost eyes. He was angry and frustrated and drugged and cold.

He was cold. Who the fuck was ever cold in Mexico? Who ever got cold in a country known for it's excessive amounts of heat, sand and sweat? And tequila, quite possibly god's greatest gift to man, that is if there was a god. If god truly existed, he would put a bottle of the stuff in Sands hand, and he would have drank it all. No doubt it would warm him up. He felt like he was back in Alaska. That was the first place the CIA sent him, but they just couldn't have him staying in the States, no matter how far away from civilization he was. Fucking dogsleds.

No one ever got cold in Mexico, Sands recalled, except for the gunfighters, the loser getting shot down and left in the dusty streets feeling as if they were dying from hypothermia instead of bullets and blood loss. And that was exactly how he was going to go down. This had to be teh most sense he had ever made, but he knew he would die. No eyes, three bullets and a body pumped full of god knows what kind of drugs the cartel had. The leader was, after all, a drug lord. At the thought of death and dying, life slipping away faster than anyone can hope to chase after it, Sands' mind drifted to the past, remembering an old childhood rhyme of his.

'I hope you die young

I hope you die in pain

I hope you die alone

In the pouring rain'

He found himself murmuring these lines under his breath. It was almost as if these lines were tattooed on his brain, he couldn't possibly forget them. Not even when he himself was dying. Especially not when he was dying. As much of his anthem as it was, Sands could never bring himself to forge it.

The wall was moving beneath him, trembling, and Sands wondered if it was the wall or his own body that shook. He would have shook his head, had it not felt as if it were filled with lead even after a rather hefty load had been removed from it. The CIA agent - soon to be ex CIA - felt a hand come down to rest on his shoulder; one of his flowery curses caught in the back of his throat as he jerked back with a force that sent him falling, landing like a dead weight on the curb. And now he felt the pain in his head.

Pain inside his head, as if only a minute separated the present from when his eyes had been torn out with the inhuman grace of a clumsy and enraged gorilla with a fetish for eyeballs, Sands suddenly became aware that there was an inferno raging inside his skull. Felt like that sadistic little fucker that called himself a doctor had planted eye-sized bombs in his own 2 ominously grotesque, gaping holes in the middle of his face. And now they had just exploded, along with the blind man's patience and sanity.


	2. Alaska: Volume One

****

Chapter 2: Alaska

Sands stepped off the plane, trying to look dignified and superior to these two little tan men buried under layers upon layers of fur coats. He had spent the last 7 hours with his head in a paper bag, barfing up his lunch, breakfast, last night's dinner and a beer.

/'We are experiencing a little turbulence. Please fasten your safety belts.'/

Christ, if that was a little turbulence, then a lot would have undoubtedly killed the Agent - could that have been his employer's intentions?- wearing nothing but a leather bike jacket. His lips were chapped and dry, his throat burned and still felt raw no matter how many sips of beer he took, his stomach was god knows where and on top of all that, he was very cold. Under any other circumstances, dignity and superiority would have come natural for Sands, but these were very difficult to accomplish at the moment. 

Screwing his attempts of looking just plain cool, Sands got off the old, rickety plane as fast as his legs would take him and emptied his stomach once again, the little package of peanuts he had consumed half an hour ago a sharp contrast on the white snow.

Fucking piece-of-shit plane that looked like it was being held together by masking tape. Fucking CIA for sending him here. Fuck fuck fuck. Already he could feel his nose and fingers going numb, or he was beginning to _not _feel them. At least it was a distraction from the taste of bile still in his throat.

The Alaskan men stood at the foot of the plane waiting for Sands on their…dogsleds? No way, no _fucking _way was Sands riding on a dogsled. The dogs looked more like underfed wolves pulling around sticks tied together with string. Honestly; this was an american state too. Why the lack of technology? Lack of cars?

"The truck could not make it through the heavy snow." One of the men said, as if reading Sand's mind. Sands scowled, hated looking stupid. "Welcome to Alaska. I am agent…"

Sands didn't bother paying them any mind. He was cold and he wanted out.

Slowly, taking his sweet old time, he walked to the dogsleds and looked each man over, finally coming to a conclusion.

"Well, shit. There's only 2 sleds. Guess I'm gonna have to go back home."

"No, you sit on the sled. We will take you to the village."

Sands glared. No way was he sitting on a bundle of sticks and getting pulled around by a pack of underfed wolves.

***

Sands was sitting on a bundle of sticks and getting pulled around by a pack of underfed wolves. He had his arms crossed in front of his chest, a sour expression upon his face. "I can't believe I'm actually doing this."

"You're going to have to speak up." One dog sledding agent called to him. "I cannot hear a word you are saying."

"Tick, tock, tick, tock." Sands tried to ignore his ever worsening bad mood, but failed miserably. Not to mention the never-changing backdrop of snow was starting to take it's toll on Sands' arguable sanity. "Patience growing thin here, people."

"As I have said before, _Agent _Sands," So, these fuckers did sarcasm too. Sands was seeing red before he got to the end of his sentence, "You must speak louder if you want to be heard."

Sands rolled his eyes; his throat was already dry from the cold. He could barely speak, let alone yell. "Fuck you." He struggled to pull out his gun from his coat, managing a clear shot through the first man's head, despite his body's shivering. Before the second man knew what was happening, he was dead too, crimson blood staining their pure white, innocent, snowy tombs.

Sands jumped off the dogsled, having a hard time getting his gun back inside his jacket. He trudged over to the closer man and searched his pockets, finding a lighter and some dollar bills. The second man was further away, and Sands didn't bother. He turned around, expecting to find the dogs, but they hadn't stopped with him. They were long gone.

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"Hey! Dogs, uh, come! Back here!" Sands waved his arms, whistled, shouted and made an assortment of noises, none of them working. So he resorted to the only word that seemed able to describe his situation.

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"Fuck!"

He landed a swift kick in the dead man's side, muttering something under his breath. "Hear me now, fucker?"

***

"So, tell me. How did you managed to actually get here?"

"S-s-sled tracks."

"What happened to your escorts?"

__

Escorts? What the fuck, those weren't escorts. Don't make laugh. "H-h-had an ac-acident." _Ha ha ha, don't sound so convincing, Sheldon._

"Oh? How is it that you are fine and they are all dead?"

In response to that, Sands slowly but carefully raised his middle finger and held it in the doctor's face. He was wrapped in to many blankets, making it impossible to find his way out of them. He also felt pins and needles whenever he tried to move something, ice cold pins and needles.

"Well, look at that. Looks like that might be frost bite. Quick, keep your hand warm." She made herself sound concerned, but really she could care a whole lot less about Sands and his bad attitude.

"F-fuck you."

"Yes, yes, I know you're angry. Just stay here by the fire while I get you something to drink." The blankets were so heavy he couldn't possibly go anywhere if he tried. He was far too tired to even come up with adequate curses. He wasn't going anywhere, and that was the CIA's intentions.

After he killed his "escorts," he walked for three hours before he made it to the village.


	3. Chapter 1: The Anatomy of a Shot

Disclaimer: Keep in mind that none of this is mine. It's sad, I know, but that's the price of a fanfiction author. It's all Robert Rodriguez's, that genius.

Author's Note: Back to the original storyline. Like I said, every other chapter or so will be it's own mini vignette that ties in with other little mini vignettes. It's confusing, since we're still near the beginning. I hope you guys will be able to distinguish the different storylines as the fic goes on.

Not to mention I'm using my Matrix theories to write some of Sands' ponderings about the joys of getting shot. ;)

Oh, and Miss Becky? The answer to your question about Alaska will be up next chapter. Or at least I hope it answers your question.

Wandering Stars

Chapter 2: The Anatomy of a Shot

Fresh in his ears, Sands heard screaming, but he couldn't decipher whose it was. It could have been his. Hell, it _should _have been his. No man could experience such pain and let it pass. Oh no, it's pain like this that never passes, that haunts people in their dreams, torment them, have them wake up screaming and praying the don't ever fall asleep again. They'd never sleep again if it meant the pain would be gone for good.

He felt like he was falling, couldn't see where he was going to land. He was out of control and it scared him shitless. The drugs still maintained their strong hold on his senses, but he could still feel there was something missing. _Balls, check. Ears, check. Feet, check. Eyes…_

And some random chunks of his arm and legs, thanks to those bastards that shot him. But right now his main focus was the two holes on his face; twin mouths screaming bloody murder at the top of their lungs for satisfaction that nothing could bring.

That's the odd thing about getting shot. You're running along just fine until you hear the scattered bursts of thunder. You think it's an oncoming storm, but the skies are clear. It was guns, aimed right at you. They never give you any warning before they fire, you never know for sure if you're in the firing range. Until you get shot. Not even a sighted man can see a bullet coming. This thought gave Sands the briefest hint of satisfaction.

Getting shot was the second worst agony you can experience, a messy and shocking blow to your reflexes, and god, did Sands know this. He had been shot up before, yet each time he thought he was ready, he really wasn't. Nothing can ever help prepare anyone for getting shot, no matter how strong you say you are.

But let's get back to being before your own little firing squad. The second a bullet pierces your skin, that heartbeat of time and space where you don't feel any pain, your brain doesn't register the foreign hunk of metal embedding itself into your skin. That's the next second; an explosion of red and pain convince you that you really aren't fine anymore, that you've run your ass off only to still end up meeting a sticky end. You fall, more from the force of the blow than anything else. That's when you start to really believe that you've been shot, when slamming into the pavement is all anyone really needs to wake up.

Then there's the screaming and the bleeding and the shock, dizziness and risk of death, but this was the fun part. The only terror came from lying there, watching your own blood poor out of your skin, where it's supposed to stay inside or at least not leave in such colossal amounts. Each drop that hit the ground made your head feel considerably lighter until pain did not exist anymore. Neither did consciousness. It was like a drug, one that came for free.

__

Excuse me, sir. You look like a nice guy. Can I trouble you to chase me around a bit and then shoot me where I'll undoubtedly bleed like a motherfucker?

Too bad Sands couldn't see the blood anymore.

But he could pin-point each one of his bullet scars, blindfolded. Each time a bullet was BANG!into his skin, it was also BANG!onto his brain. Some scars never truly healed. Neither could his screaming echoing in his skull be erased.

***

It was all a blur of color, shapes and sounds up until now. Sands remembered someone trying to pull him to his feet. He remembered hanging like a dead weight on anonymous shoulders, anonymous arms holding him steady to keep him from falling. Not steady enough to ease the pain, though. Or his screams, or the cold. Or anything else, for that matter. In fact, he felt no different than if he had been back on the ground.

Sands tried to make a little film reel inside his head of what he assumed was going on, but no matter how serious he was or how hard he tried, everything came out as a badly-drawn cartoon. Colored stick figures with squiggles and scribbles for hair, clothes were just shapes with colors creeping outside the lines. Blind men can't draw, not even in their heads.

He tried to fight, and he sure made one hell of an impact on the man who was carrying him - someone else's blood was now on Sands' face and hands as well as his own. But whoever it was did not drop him.

Thunk, thunk, thunk. Each step pained Sands. Whoever was carrying him wasn't being very careful. Hello! Blind, shot-up man here. Ever hear of the phrase 'Handle With Care'? God, it was so cold. Just like Alaska, only there was no snow. But how would he know? He couldn't see it anyways. What was the difference between a freezing Alaskan snow storm and a freezing rain of Mexican dust?

Sands realized he was clutching the fabric of his rescuer's shirt in his hands, so tight that he almost thought he would fall if he let go. "So…fucking cold." His speech took a lot of his effort, and he dropped his head when he got no response to his complaints and shivering. Honestly, who was this guy? Did he not realize that someone freezing in Mexico was a _bad sign?_

Giving up on all signs of making contact with his carrier, Sands bit back a scream when the man's last foot-fall sent a painful jolt up his spine, his brain equally distributing it to every part of his body. _Fucking brain. Why won't you ever work _for _me? Oh god…_

Brace yourself. This is going to be one hell of a ride, and he knew it.


	4. Alaska: Volume Two

Disclaimer: Keep in mind that none of this is mine. It's sad, I know, but that's the price of a fanfiction author. It's all Robert Rodriguez's, that genius.

Author's Note: I hope you like Alaska, because that's where we're going back to. I figure you guys need a break from the Sands Angst once and a while.

A special thanks to Miss B for help with this chapter. Rock on, woman!

Wandering Stars

Alaska: Part 2

"Why were you sent here? There's no trouble going on in Alaska."

Sands wanted to know the same answer, but of course, some things were always denied from even his knowledge. He hated that. Didn't want to blow his cover, so he gave the same bullshit answer that his boss gave him.

"Drug dealers. Lots of drug dealers." His voice was still shaky, but its progress was great compared to how he sounded a few hours before. "All this underground shit floating around."

The doctor shook her head. "And how are you going to be able to stop drug dealers if you can't even ride a dogsled without nearly freezing to death?" Ignorant bitch. Sands held back a chuckle, but smirked. He loved knowing what others didn't. It meant he was in control, and that was always what he wanted.

Once Sands' blood picked up its almost normal circulation, he began to feel more then just pins and needles.

The room was heated.

A fire burned in the fireplace.

The sun had long since set, the moon glowing in the velvet night sky.

The woman that nearly drowned him with hot chocolate had a very nice ass. Breasts too. Small enough for him to grasp, but big enough to absorb all of Sands' attention. She didn't notice, but when she walked by again Sands' arm wormed it's way out of the blankets and came up to touch her breast.

She stiffened, contemplating resistance. But along with looking frightened, she was compelled to stay, compelled to act on instinct. More fun for Sands.

All Sands wanted was a good fuck. He never expected a marriage proposal, nor did he expect that he would say yes. He was riding high on the remnants of a good orgasm when she had asked him: No wasn't on the menu, at least not at that moment. Conniving bitch, she read him like a book because he had accidentally opened for her, and now he couldn't close.

Because of one stupid mistake, she took control, and that was bad. It was never good when someone else got the upper hand.

Sands' hand was on her breast, the other one struggling to free himself from the heap of blankets wrapped around his shoulders. His patience had run dry, so he took his hand off her breast for an instant to pull her down, closer. Her lips were warm against his, still cold. At first she was tense, not even putting any effort into the kiss. Just when Sands had had enough, she returned his kisses with equal force, wrapping her arms around him.

"So I was right, it does get hot underneath all those fucking jackets." Sands said between kisses. The woman stifled a laugh, trying to dominate. If she thought she would dominate over Sands, she had another thing coming. Control was nothing, unless he had it.

Apparently, the woman thought the same thing, about herself. "You look tired. You should get in bed." She had no intentions of having him fall asleep, and he knew it. Hell, if he slept through this he might have missed what looked like a fine opportunity. So one thing led to another, one fuck led to two, two fucks led to many more, and then that all eventually led to a pregnant Alaskan woman who was grouchy and in the mood to throw things.

"You bastard! How could you do this to me? Like I'm just another bitch you want to get in bed." A plastic cup missed Sands' head by an inch.

He held up his hands, trying to stop the oncoming of thrown objects. "If I'm not mistaken, it was /you/ who wanted to get /me/ in bed."

"If you weren't so damn...provocative," A plate hit the wall and shattered into a million pieces. The woman let out a cry of frustration. "I have a baby!" she screamed.

"Sugar..."

"YOU have a baby!" She reached into the cabinet and found another plate. "You are not going back home and leaving me to care for it alone!"

Sands was at the end of his rope. He picked up the plastic cup and threw it back to where it had flown from just moments before. "I'm CIA. I have to get back. My job in this shithole state is done!"

"I don't give a damn!" She held another plate menacingly over her head. That, too, shattered with a bang, but at Sands' hand. The agent had drawn his gun, whose aim had shifted from the plate to its carrier.

"Stop giving me shit over this shit kid who I don't even want."

"You said you'd marry me! I asked you to marry me and you said yes, god damnit." Her voice was getting hoarse.

"Oh, Jesus Christ! How could I say no when you were riding me like a rodeo bull? Stop fucking around with me!"

"Stop fucking with me."

"I can't do that."

Push came to shove, and eventually the woman pulled a gun out of a drawer, catching Sands off guard. Sands shot close to her head; She shot close to Sands' head. His bullet burrowed harmlessly into the wall while hers dug not-so-harmlessly into his shoulder.

"Shit!" she screamed as he stumbled. "Oh my god, I was aiming for the wall, I tried to do what you did, I'm sorry, oh god!" Sands slid down the wall, leaving a trail of blood in his wake. "Please, please, don't be dead!"

Sands situated himself on the floor, every movement slow and painful. "You'll wish…you were dead…once I'm back." With a low moan, he tipped his head back and shut his eyes against the pain. "Crazy bitch."

When he said nothing, a new wave of terror came over her. "Sheldon, oh god!" She was sobbing now as she ran and knelt by his side. Pulse was still good, but the blood staining his clothes and her hands added fuel to the fire. "Please, don't be dead."

She got up and dialed 911, frantically begging for an ambulance. Hanging up, she knelt back down next to Sands. Slowly, he forced one eye open, and then the other. "Sheldon, are you alright?"

Sands swallowed hard, blinked a few times and rolled his eyes, a small smirk appearing on his face. "Oh, I'm fine. It's my…damn shoulder that needs help."

This chapter was actually going to happen later on in the fic. I wanted to write more about Sands in this shithole state of his. More dogsleds, more snow and tormenting the locals, of course. Always a fun hobby of our trigger-happy SJ. But my fic just went ahead without me, leaving those plans in the dust. So I went with it. Sure, I'm not driving with my eyes shut (miss b!), I'm not that extreme. But it's a start. *laughs*


End file.
